


silence down below

by akamine_chan



Category: due South
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-11
Updated: 2014-08-11
Packaged: 2018-02-12 16:39:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2117091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akamine_chan/pseuds/akamine_chan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's deathly quiet, except for the occasional gust of wind that howls between the skyscrapers.  There are entire blocks of the Chicago skyline where none of the buildings have collapsed, unaffected by the cold-induced metal fatigue that have toppled so many others.</p>
            </blockquote>





	silence down below

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ride_Forever](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ride_Forever/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Together](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12797) by [Luzula](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luzula/pseuds/Luzula). 



> This was written for ride_4ever, who was kind enough to support me in my fanworks drive by donating. 
> 
> Prompt and title from: _Twilight on the frozen lake, north wind about to break, footprints in the snow, silence down below._ from **Never Say Goodbye** by Bob Dylan
> 
> Beta by Ande.
> 
> Warning for post-apocalypse and all the death that entails. No explicit character death, but again, apocalypse. Read with caution, or contact me for details.

It's deathly quiet, except for the occasional gust of wind that howls between the skyscrapers. There are entire blocks of the Chicago skyline where none of the buildings have collapsed, unaffected by the cold-induced metal fatigue that have toppled so many others. 

Seeing those still-standing buildings used to give Fraser hope.

It's early morning, but the light coming through the clouds and dust make it seem like twilight. Fraser can't actually remember the last time he saw the sun; it's been a long time.

He treks out to the Lake They Call Michigan, and he sees no sign of life. In the early days, there was always something—the occasional contrail in the darkening sky, the sound of snowmobiles and snowplows, heavily bundled people searching for food and shelter. In the last year, he sometimes sees a winter hare, or the tracks of a fox, but today, there's nothing. Nothing but dry snow and silence.

He keeps telling Ray that it's only a matter of time before things start to change for the better, until the dust settles enough for sunlight to warm things back up, but Ray just scoffs. Ray doesn't have faith in much these days. 

Today there are no little pawprints, no indication that Fraser's not the last person left alive. Fraser's lost track of how long it's been since he saw another person besides Ray. The Lake They Call Michigan is frozen over, the icy surface covered by several inches of snow. There's very little precipitation, all of the atmospheric moisture is locked up. It's dry as a desert, now.

Fraser hikes out onto the surface of the lake, the cleats on his boots giving him enough traction to keep from slipping. The exercise loosens his muscles, and Fraser feels warm for the first time in days. 

He remembers when he and Ray went on their quest, searching for the Hand of Franklin, and travelling across the land by dogsled. He feels a pang of regret. It's hard enough keeping people alive under the circumstances; sled dogs would be impossible. He misses Dief's snarky comments 

The fishing hole is marked by a strip of bright fabric, nailed into the ice. There's a roundish hole, over a meter deep, and two meters wide. Last week, the hole opened into the icy water of the Lake, but it's frozen again. Fraser pulls off his backpack and digs out his ice saw, his decoys, and his fishing spear. He unfolds the saw and gets to work breaking up the new layer of ice. It takes a while, but Fraser's got patience and he finally clears the hole.

He wipes down the blade of his saw and stows it safely away; it's one of his most important tools and he takes very good care of it. His decoys are hand carved out of precious wood and painted to look like shiny bait fish. He lowers the decoys into the water and watches them drift in the current, stands ready with his spear, and waits. 

In the past, it wouldn't take long for a pike or trout to swim past the hole, interested in his decoys. Lately, though, it takes longer; last week it had been hours until he'd seen a fish, and it had been too small to spear.

Fraser is certain that the fish population in the Lake is slowly diminishing, either through predation or changing of habitat. He's not sure which, or if it's something else completely. In the end, it doesn't matter. It's just another sign of how bad things really are. 

He keeps his eyes focused on the clear water and mentally catalogs the supplies they still have, and calculates how long it they will last. The biggest worry is combustibles—the fish can be salted and dried, canned food can be eaten cold, but he needs fire to melt snow for drinking. They need things to burn.

It's probably time to take another trip to the library, pulling the sledge behind him. The first time they'd gone to harvest books, it had broken his heart. They can't afford sentimentality any more.

Fraser loses track of the time, and when a fish swims into view, he holds his breath and slowly raises his spear, because fish are sensitive to even the most minute vibrations. He waits, and waits, his arm starting to ache from holding so still. He needs to strike fast and true, because he needs the food, and he only gets one shot at this.

He thrusts the spear with all of his strength. The water bubbles and churns, and he feels the weight of the fish on the end of the barbed tines. Fraser bares his teeth in a feral grin, but as he starts to pull the spear up, the fish thrashes hard and wriggles free. "Damn it!" His voice is rusty with disuse and Fraser tries to remember the last time he spoke out loud. It's been a while. Years, maybe.

Fraser crouches next to the hole, looking in. The water is clear and he can see the faintest reflection of himself. He almost doesn't recognize his own face, chapped and windburnt, salt-and-pepper beard crusted with ice. 

It's cold, and Fraser's tired, and it's still twilight out on the Lake They Call Michigan. He looks up, but the dust blocks the stars. So much of his old life that he misses.

He climbs to his feet, ignoring the way his knees ache, and gathers everything up for the hike home. He follows his own footprints through the snow, and listens to the silence down below.

-fin-


End file.
